


Penmanship

by VioletSmith



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Flirting, Food, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Slow Burn, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 10:54:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19439989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletSmith/pseuds/VioletSmith
Summary: This is the first chapter of a story that's going to get a lot weirder and filthier as we go. Wings and feathers, kink that there isn't any words for, inhuman characters being inhuman, UST for days. Gratuitous Crowley POV."You're a good person."Every part of Crowley grimaces. "Oh fuck off."Thanks are due to Deepdarkwaters for one of the central ideas,  and otherwiseestella for the beta read and general cheerleading <3





	Penmanship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blewoutthestars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blewoutthestars/gifts).



Black becomes him better than white ever did, Crowley thinks. Glossy black feathers, magpie-black, oilspill, a black rainbow. And they look so fucking good with his favourite leather jacket. Damn, he thinks, preening in front of the little brass-edged mirror hung on one of the few bare patches of wall in the bookshop. He’s a horny goth’s wet dream. He shakes his hips a bit, slinky, and gives his reflection a wink. Oh, he’s a beast. He’s on fire tonight. Maybe he should grow his hair out again...

A door bangs open behind him and Crowley startles, wings disturbed, ripples on a black lake. He folds them away hurriedly - but it’s only the angel.

“There you are,” he says, with feigned impatience. If there’s one thing a few thousand years of temptation will give you, it’s patience. “I was about to start eating the books.”

Aziraphale widens his eyes, playing up the scandalised air he performs so well, but there’s amusement in his voice when he says, “Don’t even joke about that.”

“Who’s joking? There’s nutrition in that old vellum. Like vintage jerky.”

“Really, Crowley,” the angel replies with affected distaste. “We’re about to eat.”

“That’s what you said an hour ago.”

“Ten minutes.”

“Well ten minutes is a long time when you’re hungry.”

Aziraphale dimples at that. As if he can’t help himself.

“Then by all means let us delay no longer. After you.” He gestures to the door, and turns off the lights behind them as they leave.

Crowley is already outside in the cool, damp air when he hears Aziraphale pause behind him. He glances back. The angel is standing in the doorway staring into the dimness of the bookshop, his eye caught by something Crowley looks for and can’t see.

“What is it?” he asks, a little concerned that some sort of obnoxiously divine business might interfere with their very important plans. They have reservations. At _Simpson’s_.

“Oh… uh, nothing, nothing at all, my dear. Bear with me for just a moment?”

He ducks back into the shop. It’s hard to see anything in the window glass but one's own reflection in the streetlight, it gets dark so early at this time of year, but Crowley’s eyes are little sharper than most. Peering, he sees Aziraphale pick something up from the floor and tuck it into a drawer, which he then locks, tucking the key into an inner pocket of his jacket. Interesting.

But then, supper. And conversation. And work, always the work, though he can’t deny that he enjoys it. And only a few scant decades after that, an Apocalypse; all of which is just a little bit distracting. So Crowley can’t really be blamed for letting the entire thing slip from his mind like a feather into the wind.

*

_Dear Crowley,_

_I’m very sorry to tell you that this business in Edinburgh is taking longer than I anticipated. I think I won’t be back in time for our meeting, for which many apologies etc. The work, at least, is straightforward enough. Mostly clearing crowds from cafes and distracting staff members who look like they might be about to ask a struggling writer to buy something or leave._

_I hope to be finished soon. Mid-95 I should think, or early 96. I’m not very sure what’s taking so long about it, but then I suppose novels can’t be rushed. And supposedly this one will be rather important to rather a lot of children, and so we must be patient._

_Perhaps you could come here, instead? There are a few interesting restaurants, if I might tempt you for a change…_

_Yours as ever,_

_A._

It’s written in black ink. Good quality, a blue-ish black that sits well on the heavy cream paper and feels expensive. It gives Crowley a funny feeling, somehow, but it’s not anything he can pin down and he’s very good at ignoring stuff that requires too much thinking about. He picks up the nice pen from the desk in his hotel room and a sheet of their letterheaded paper, and leans so far back that it takes a minor miracle to keep the creaky chair from crashing to the floor. He considers a moment, then transfigures the pen into a bic biro. Blue. Slightly chewed. Cheap as chips, and an absolute profanity in comparison to the silky black ink of Aziraphale’s letter. He can’t help it, alright, there’s just something in him that likes to mess with people. With this person in particular.

_No worries, Angel, I’m a bit tied up myself over on the other side of the Atlantic. Got a job at that computer place. The one I was telling you about. Nothing too strenuous, you’ll be pleased to hear, just messing with the new release a bit. Few tweaks, here and there, you know, so it’s still usable just not VERY usable. I predict it’ll be directly responsible for a 17% increase in household discord, and that rises to 32% for the average office. Figures like that can’t be argued with. Anyway I’ll try to drop by, but Scotland at this time of year is pretty fucking miserable so I’m not making any promises. Stay in touch._

He crosses the last sentence out. Then puts it back again. He folds Aziraphale’s letter into an inner pocket that doesn’t technically exist on this physical plane.

He doesn’t make it to Scotland, but Windows 95 is such a resounding success on Hell’s behalf that Crowley is made Employee of the Millenium. He is disappointed to learn that this entails nothing more than an unflattering picture of himself being put up on the wall of Beelzebub’s office, and not, as he had hoped, a large bonus and an early retirement.

*

Aziraphale does not take to email. He _can_ use it, but he quite clearly prefers not to. Crowley enjoys the scrunched up, constipated look he gets on his face whenever the subject comes up.

“Old fashioned,” he teases.

“Not old fashioned,” Aziraphale corrects. “Merely old.”

He’s holding the BlackBerry Crowley has just given him between finger and thumb, like a particularly distasteful article of clothing. Crowley watches him set it down carefully on the table beside his napkin. He grins, hopelessly fond, and then tries to school his expression to something more sarcastic, something more _demonic_ , before the angel looks back up at him.

“As if you weren’t like this from the very beginning.”

Aziraphale hides his smile in a champagne flute. “I couldn’t possibly comment.”

Crowley scoffs. “I bloody well could.”

“But you won’t.”

“Won’t I?”

“No.” Aziraphale sounds very sure.

“And why’s that?”

They’re pleasantly full. Eating is such an unnecessary luxury, a decadence, it makes Crowley feel indulgent. Makes him lazy and slow like a well fed snake, like the soft lighting and the distant sound of the rain outside.

“Because you’re a gentleman,” Aziraphale says.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

Crowley laughs. “I’m no such thing and you know it. Not even the same species.”

“You don’t think a demon can be a gentleman?” One delicate white-blond eyebrow is raised.

“No I don’t. Not any more than an angel can be.”

“Hmm. Then what are we?”

Crowley considers his glass for a moment, which has somehow filled itself again when he wasn’t paying attention. The golden bubbles drift lazily to the surface. “Screwed,” he offers.

*

He isn’t sure when _Dear Crowley_ became _My dear Crowley_ , but somehow that additional word, those additional two small letters, have enough weight in them that he’s sure it should increase the cost of postage.

_My dear Crowley,_

_For the love (as it were) of all things Holy, please desist from sending me any more of those dreadful electronic letters. I have a sentimental attachment to my pen and paper and won’t be tempted to infidelity with your digital missives._

_The weather is terrible, as it usually is, and London is frightfully dull these days. Do you happen to have an idea of when you’ll be back?_

_Yours etc,_

_A._

_P.S. I have enclosed the item you mentioned. Please handle it carefully._

The letters still feel… weird, somehow, to Crowley. When he holds them in his hands he feels a tug, from the ink or the paper or the writing itself… he’s not sure. Just that little magnetic pull, as if something hidden there knows him. He tries to put it from his mind. But he keeps them on his person most of the time, like a talisman, though he knows it’s a risky idea to carry something so heavily imbued with grace, something touched by an angel. It’s comforting, though. Familiar, in a way he can’t put his finger on. And he tells himself that it would go badly for him if they were found at his place. Incriminating, is what they are: evidence of an arrangement neither side would approve of. No, best to keep them close.

*

"Crowley - I say, Crowley!"

To call it a crowded street would be a gross understatement, but even deep in the throng of bodies with all their human noise and heat, Crowley would recognise that voice anywhere. He slithers through the crowd to the other side of the street, following the glimpse of white to where the cobbles meet the entry of an alley, dark, roofed with brick and slate.

"Angel! What are you doing here?" He claps Aziraphale on the shoulder. "Wouldn't have thought the Fringe was your scene."

Aziraphale is even pinker than usual, flushed with what must be a reaction to the almost unpleasantly (even for Crowley) busy road. "The Los Angeles philharmonic is playing at the Usher Hall," he says, in a tone of voice that could fairly be described as _breathless_. "I thought it was worth the very briefest of visits. How about you?"

"Oh, just a work thing. You know how it is."

“Of course, of course."

"Busy time of year for it."

"I can imagine. Are you staying nearby?"

It’s hard to make himself heard over the din of the street, the musicians and performers, the pedestrians, the not so distant grumble of heavy traffic. Crowley is sorely tempted to lift a hand and silence every single one of these noises, make them all shut the fuck up for a moment. The miracle ripples just under his skin in readiness. It tickles, a bit. He lets the power disperse unused.

“Not far.”

They end up doing dinner, of course. That’s what they do, it’s their thing - especially since the baby, and those weird few years nannying in the US. Not that Crowley can't rock any look he chooses, mind you, and not that that was the first dress he'd ever worn either, thank you very much; the sixties may have passed Aziraphale by, but the minidress was invented for these legs - and that’s not hyperbole. Gender conformity means very little to a six thousand year old fallen angel. But he is rather glad to be _himself_ again, to take some time off while he tries to work out what the Heaven he’s going to do about this upcoming apocalypse. And take in a few shows while he’s at it, sow some general chaos, mix things up a bit. There are no fewer than seventeen mediocre comedians sharing their uneducated views on political correctness to a paying audience in the city at this very moment and calling it art, and that’s a personal record.

But away from the unrelenting press of the festival crowds, Crowley is here. He takes tiny, bloody bites of exceptionally rare steak, and watches Aziraphale groan around each mouthful of his own meal as if in ecstasy. It’s sinful.

“ _Good_?” he purrs, setting an elbow on the pristine white tablecloth and leaning towards Aziraphale.

“Exquisite.” Aziraphale’s eyes are closed, worshipful, but they flicker open and catch hold of Crowley’s gaze even through the glasses. The soft tinkling of cutlery and crockery and the quiet hum of voices from the other diners is suddenly diminished, as if heard from a greater distance. Crowley thinks he would quite like to stay here a while, right here in this moment of awkwardly prolonged eye contact. He’d like to rent a room here, to unpack a suitcase. But then the waiter is clearing his throat surreptitiously, and offering the dessert menu, and Crowley can think of nothing he wants more than to watch Aziraphale consume something decadently sweet.

“Let me tempt you,” he says.

“You are entirely too good at it,” Aziraphale says, relenting and ordering the clafoutis.

“It’s my job to be good at it.”

The dessert, when it comes, is creamy and dense. The black cherries burst in the mouth. They share it, like a private joke.

Afterwards they’re uncomfortably full. They walk along the canal towards Slateford and Crowley feels as if his skin is too tight to contain him. It's hard to swagger on cobblestones, especially with a bottle or two of rather good wine in you, but he’s giving it a good old go.

“I invented it, you know,” he brags.

“Invented what?”

“The Fringe. It is one of mine own.” He puts his hands on the place where, if he were human, a heart would have been.

“Ah. Yes, I might have known.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Aziraphale graces him with one of those inscrutable smiles, the small ones that he seems a little embarrassed by. “Only that your handiwork has a certain… flare to it, that one comes to recognise over time.”

It's late enough that you might reasonably call it early again, though the sky hasn't yet begun to pale and the darkness is thick enough to be impenetrable to humans. Crowley looks at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye - he’s still talking, holding forth now on the subject of the new violinist he’s here to fawn over - but his voice fumbles when Crowley lets his wings out for a quick stretch and an almost-silent shake.

“What?” Crowley asks.

“Nothing.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “It’s dark. There’s no one around. I ate too much, my body’s too tight, get over it.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said nothing.”

“Precisely.”

“Nothing is something!” He stretches his wings again. "Satan, that feels good." They’re big enough, and the path narrow enough, that the left one reaches out over the water. The right reaches behind Aziraphale, like he’s trying to sneak an arm around his shoulder.

“Shameless,” Aziraphale tuts, very quietly.

“I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

It’s meant to be flirtatious but it falls flat, somehow.

Aziraphale takes his hand for a moment, and squeezes it. “Amen,” he says, and lets it fall.

The next morning finds Crowley perched improbably at the cliff edge of the Crags, overlooking the city as the sun rises, wings catching the wind. It hasn’t warmed enough yet to be anything but uncomfortably chill and his feathers are damp with dew, but he considers it an acceptable discomfort to put up with in the name of looking this cool when Aziraphale shows up - and show up he does, a gentle shush of wings displacing the air, white tinged with the particular golden quality of the new dawn light dripping upwards from the horizon.

Bloody angels.

“You’ll catch a cold,” Aziraphale chides, and his hands reach for Crowley as if he wants to touch him. They stop millimetres away from the black feathers. The atoms of Crowley feel the almost-touch like holy water.

“No I won’t.” Crowley is cold almost all of the time. It’s an occupational hazard of being a demon who lives anywhere that isn’t as hot as Hell itself. But it can’t harm him. It’s only background noise.

“Well - not literally, no, I suppose not.”

They watch the great light creep higher into the sky.

“Let me give you a lift home,” Crowley says, before he can think better of it, and he hates that it sounds like he’s asking a favour instead of offering one.

“Back to London?” The angel seems confused. “Aren’t you supposed to be working.”

Crowley snorts. “Please. As if they need any more help towards sin around here.” Aziraphale looks slightly disapproving at that, glancing down and out over the city as if he’d forgotten it was there. “Did you know they’ve made a musical about Brexit?” Crowley shakes his head, part disgust and part admiration. “Face it, I’m superfluous. Not that I’ll mention that in the report. Come on, let me drive you home. Much nicer than the train.”

“I’m not sure my side would, you know, approve of that.”

“Is there anything they actually _would_ approve of?”

Aziraphale frowns. “Ah, well. I suppose, if you put it like that."

“I’ll put it any way you like, angel.”

The confused look remains. Not for the first time, Crowley wonders how a being can live nearly six thousand years and still be quite so naive.

“Well,” Aziraphale says carefully, “if you’re sure.”

*

In 1585 Agnes Sampson, known locally as the Wise Wife of Keith, kept a notebook. It’s a good idea to keep a notebook. You can write any number of useful things in it, such as shopping lists, reminders, a guide to important medicinal herbs, the names of babies you’ve delivered, and lists of any monarchs you may have recently cursed. Obviously such records could look just the teensiest bit incriminating if found and read by the wrong person, and so Agnes placed a powerful protective charm on it, a charm to thwart the self-destructively curious. Nothing violent - Agnes was not an indiscriminately violent person. Just a little humiliating.

It didn’t help her much. Agnes was put to death for stormraising in 1591 after having been found to have been “licked by the devil” by a team of imaginative and torture-happy interrogators. Her notebook, however, remained undisturbed for over four hundred years; which is about average for most To Do Lists.

*

_My dear Crowley,_

_Apologies for the somewhat rushed nature of this letter. Your help is required with an urgent and somewhat delicate matter. Please join me at the bookshop at your earliest convenience._

_Yours,_

_A._

He can’t help laughing. It’s his first reaction, and he’s not proud of it, but in his defence it is REALLY fucking funny.

“What did you do?”

“If you MUST know,” Aziraphale replies, primly, “I acquired a new and very rare ancient text that has long been missing from my collection. And I had the very smallest of small incidents while, ah, testing it.”

“Testing what?”

“The text.”

Crowley pauses in the middle of the shop floor, hands on his hips. “How do you test a book?”

“Well. It isn’t, strictly speaking, an ordinary book.”

“You don’t say.”

It isn’t everyday you see an angel with pink hair. And Crowley would say that rarer still is the sight of one with a hot pink halo and wings to match.

“The harp is a nice touch.”

“ _Crowley_.”

“Yes, yes, alright, I’m fixing it.”

There’s the tinkle of the bell at the shop door. A click of Crowley’s fingers has the bothersome potential customer suddenly remembering a very important errand he was supposed to be running, and the lock on the door sliding home. Crowley considers a moment, then flips the sign to closed for good measure.

“You’re a disgrace, angel. You know that?”

“I’m rather painfully aware, yes."

Crowley circles him slowly - he wants to savour this, get a good mental 360 degree photograph. The heels of his snakeskin boots click on the wooden floor like the pendulum tock of one of Aziraphale’s old clocks. It seems like only a few minutes ago that such things were brand new technology. It all moves so fast, these days. Crowley takes out his phone and snaps a few photos for good measure.

"Excuse me!"

"All right, all right, keep your flaming pink hair on."

This is the thing about Aziraphale. He’s ridiculous. But he’s so ridiculous, and so unapologetically and unselfconsciously ridiculous, that somehow it goes full circle and becomes charming again. Crowley thinks this is what caught his attention, and kept catching it over the many long years of their acquaintance. This endless ability to meet awkwardness and humiliation with gentleness and self deprecation. That’s what fascinated Crowley. That and the kindness. The kindness is rare, for an angel, though Crowley knows Aziraphale doesn’t realise it. Yet.

He opens a hand in front of his face and blows theatrically across the palm. At the first warm touch of his breath the vibrant fuschia colour drips away, leaving his angel pristine again and a small glass inkpot full of vivid pink sat on the desk by what looks like a very old and rather stained notebook. Weird hobby, book collecting.

It isn't until Aziraphale is done turning in circles trying to look at his own wings, which have returned to the pristine blank paper whiteness of their divinity, and smiled at Crowley with a very quiet little "Oh. Thank you." that Crowley realises just how fucked he is.

"You're a good person."

Every part of Crowley grimaces. "Oh fuck off."

The light is very golden. Aziraphale smiles at him as if he's uttered an endearment.There are four months until the Apocalypse. Fuck.

*

The life of a travelling pen salesman is one of excitement and variety. You have to learn to roll with life’s punches, to embrace the ebbs and tides of fate, the cruel whims of the universe, the unpredictability of it all. One moment you might be about to knock on the door of a bookshop belonging to one of your oldest and best (and only) customers, and the next you might be suddenly remembering that you left the oven on and must dash to turn it off again, only to get home and find that you were wrong and the oven wasn’t on, and in fact hasn’t been used at all for a very long time, because all you’ve eaten for the last twelve years of your adult life is microwaved ready meals from the Co-op.

You’re pretty sure that, as you turned away, you caught a glimpse through the bookshop window of the customer in a hot pink feather boa. He definitely always seemed like the hot pink feather boa type, and you know he has a thing for feathers - though not, usually, this colour.

It’s all a bit inconvenient, though. You’re seeing Alfie from over the road later and you had hoped that the customer might commission another fancy bespoke quill and you could use some of the money to splurge on a Truly Irresistible Beef Lasagne (800W 5 mins, serves 2). But that is the nature of the life you have chosen - the life of a travelling pen salesman - and nobody ever said it would be easy.


End file.
